Jagged Lines
by Eternity In Seconds
Summary: Straight lines go too quickly to appreciate the journey. They rush straight to their target then die in the very moment of their triumph, without having loved, suffered or enjoyed themselves. Broken lines don't know what they want. It's another story with curved lines. Draco realizes that, even when he'd been fourteen, he'd been in love with Potter. Eighth Year.


**Jagged Lines  
****Title: Jagged Lines**  
**Author:** Eternity in Seconds  
**Rating:** T, Language and mature themes.  
**Category:** Angst/Romance  
**Pairings:** DM/HP_  
_**Summary: **An "eighth year" fic. Draco realizes that, even when he had been fourteen, he had been in love with Potter. They were the two loneliest figures in the world. Yet Potter was somehow the lonelier of them both. This is Draco's story of his life after the war.  
**Warnings:** Present tense, canon compliant (mostly), Abstract mentions of rape. French (which is probably terrible)  
**Authors Note:** First Harry Potter FanFiction! Excitement abounds! This is roughly 12,500 words not counting this or end authors note. It is epilogue compliant, but what **comes after the epilogue is fair game**... ;D

_**French Translations are at the end.**_

**A BIG THANK YOU to a guest reviewer by the name of "**_Another reader**" **_**who took the time to point out my absolutely horrible French! Thank you so much for sticking with Jagged Lines despite the horrible! I've edited Jagged Lines with your points (I really hope you were telling the truth! XD)**

**Disclaimer:** J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books and Warner Brothers own everything. I make no profit from this fiction. This is purely

* * *

**~*~**  
**May 2, 1998**  
**~*~**

Sometimes he thinks that maybe they are just stories. Like they may as well just be words on a page, because a person is only what they have done and what they are going to do. He knows he is only an ex-Death Eater, a tiny speck in the world, but then he looks at the things he has seen and done and he becomes a jagged line of something important. And he thinks it is the same for Harry Potter and Hermione Granger and even Severus and for his mother and for Pansy, the purebloods he associates with, and for Blaise and maybe even the birds in the sky.

He knows that there are different genres of stories with different kinds of beginnings and endings. But he can't say that, for him, it worked that way, with any kind of ending he could pin down. And there were still things he didn't expect.

The first was that he didn't expect to turn against the Dark Lord. But he did, he has, and he can't imagine a life where he hadn't. The second was that Draco didn't think he would even be alive after sixth year. But when the Dark Lord fell, he felt his life fall back into his own hands.

* * *

**~*~**  
**September, 1998**  
**~*~**

Professor McGonagall sends for him after the Welcoming Feast. He should call her Headmistress now, because both Severus and Dumbledore are dead and buried, but it's still strange. Dumbledore's portrait is directly behind her high-backed chair, and Draco can't even bring himself to look at it.

"Sit down, Malfoy," she snaps, her voice clipped and sharp like she can't even stomach his presence. Draco absently notes that she has forsaken all forms of etiquette. Draco sits, too afraid to turn the offer down and stick his nose up like the pureblood heir he is supposed to be. "You have been accepted back into Hogwarts only because the Ministry has set it as one of terms of your probation. You have only been accepted so that you can be monitored and controlled. Do not think, for even a second, that you will receive special treatment."

Draco blinks, not quite understanding what McGonagall is referring to. "Special treatment, Headmistress?" Just because she has tossed courtesy to the wind doesn't mean he will.

McGonagall blinks, her face transforming from arrogant control and spite to something alarmed. "You don't know?" He doesn't response, using silence as his response. "I will be honest with you, Malfoy. Threats have been made against your life. Many did not want you to come back to Hogwarts. Many still want you in Azkaban, in a cell alongside your fathers."

Draco finds himself not at all surprised by this news. He spent two weeks in Azkaban, from May fourth to May eighteenth, leading up to his trial. After it was over, he and his mother vanished, leaving for France, to their Châteaux. Blaise and Pansy bought his school books and things for him, and he arrived two hours early for the Hogwarts Express after Apparating straight there so no one would see him.

McGonagall clears her throat and Draco realizes that he zoned out. He feels his cheeks flare with heat and stares at one of the empty portraits behind her desk. "Back to the reason you are here. As part of this probation, you are too sit six NEWTS and pass each one with an Exceeds Expectations. Anything lower, we will be having words and you will be thrown out." Draco nods, refusing to look away from the painting of the Scottish Highlands. "You are still a prefect alongside Miss Parkinson, and are to be in Slytherin dorms by eight o'clock. Any time after, you will be attended by Miss Parkinson or a teacher. You are not allowed the privilege of visiting Hogsmeade. You are not to leave the Hogwarts Grounds. A charm will be place on your person to ensure this. It will send an electric-like shock through your body as soon as you leave the grounds unattended."

Draco expected rules, but this is too much. When McGonagall gestures to a silver cuff on the desk in front of him, he realizes that they are effectively _collaring_ him like a mutt. He can't find it in himself to care.

"Finally, you are not to mention, no matter the circumstances, Voldemort or the Mark in any shape of form. And you are not to approach Harry Potter." McGonagall gives him a stern look. "I am serious, Malfoy. No antagonizing, hexing, cursing, speaking or annoying Mister Potter."

Draco nods.

McGonagall gives him a sad look, her eyes becoming soft and apologetic. "I wish I didn't have to, Draco, but my hands have been tied by the Ministry. I truly am sorry." She leans back away from him and becomes serious again. "I hope everything turns out for the best, Mister Malfoy."

* * *

**~*~**  
**October, 1998**  
**~*~**

He regrets the decision to go back to school every moment he is awake.

The world knows that he is the youngest Death Eater ever inducted into the Dark Lords services and the world knows that he saved Harry Potter. They distrust him because of it. Draco thinks it is because they don't know what to think. Is he a traitor or a hero? Was he a betrayer or an ally?

The Ravenclaws don't care one way or another, so enraptured by their books and their pursuit of knowledge. The Slytherins are torn in two. His House, usually the forefront of unity, is divided. Those who were never loyal to the Dark Lord hold him up like God. Like a Prince. And those who were loyal to the Dark Lord shun him, hate him with a passion he only thought Gryffindor's possessed.

Draco enters the Hall and heads to his usual group of companions. He does not think to consider that Theo Nott, Emma Vane, Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, Tracie Davis and even Daphne Greengrass all supported the Dark Lord in some shape or form.

"Go away Malfoy," Theo snaps imperially, looking at Draco down his nose. "We don't want anything to do with your kind."

"Theo-"

"Fuck. Off."

He catches Blaise's eye, and Pansy's, and they give him identical looks. They are still his friends, but they can't be seen with him. Draco blinks away angry, frustrated tears, and leaves. A group of fourth year Hufflepuffs shrink away in fear and Draco bares his teeth at them, ashamed and hating himself even more than normal.

It's the Hufflepuff's that surprise him. They are vicious in their hatred. Zacharias Smith, Justin Finch-Fletchley and another boy he thinks is called Roger Malone circle him just as he leaves. Draco knows that the teachers can see, that the whole Hall can see, but that doesn't stop them from shoving him around in their little circle and sending curses at him that create prickles of pain all along his skin. One gets a punch to his jaw and it sends him sprawling into the wall. He knocks his head hard and lights erupt in his eyes.

As quickly as they appear, they vanish.

Harry Potter is coming down the stairs, talking to Weasley and Granger. Even as Draco vanishes into the shadows of an abandoned corridor, he still feels Potters gaze on his back.

* * *

**~*~**  
**November, 1998**  
**~*~**

He thinks he should get an award for making himself invisible, irrelevant. His options have been limited, wilted down to three: Azkaban, the Astronomy Tower and the Library. He chooses option three, and spends all his time studying, keeping his head down; he goes to classes, gets Exceeds Expectations on homework where he should receive Outstanding's. He knows that it's only because all the staff hate him.

Sometimes, at night, when there isn't any work or papers to distract him, he feels the Dark Mark tingle as he thinks of the past. He rarely sleeps more than four hours a night, but somehow, he survives.

It's in the hours where he lays awake, staring at the canopy above his bed – which he has charmed tighter then Azkaban itself, so that his fellow Slytherin's didn't smother him in his bed – that he really feels the distance from everything.

Draco feels semi-alive during the day. He feels his heart pounding as he avoids the people who want him to die in Azkaban, who want to kill him themselves because Draco killed their brothers and fathers and mothers and Uncles. But then, when Pansy sneaks away after sparing five minutes to see him and his dorm mates go to bed, and he can't sleep, he starts to feel like he is all alone, and that feeling gets stronger and stronger. It feels like the air around him is heavy, and it takes to much effort to breathe, much less move. He doesn't want to do anything. He is alone with his thoughts, and his head feels like a radio playing at top volume, while everything else around him is just… dead. It happens every morning, in the hours before dawn, and when it's time to go to classes and get breakfast in the morning, he has forgotten why he ever wanted to stay.

It's this particular night, weeks after he was cornered and attacked by God damned fucking _Hufflepuffs_, that the words creep into his mind like a mist that clings to everything and makes him shiver.

_One of your kind..._

Does he even have a kind anymore? He is not truly pureblood anymore, but he is not half-blood or muggle born or Mudblood. He is not blood traitor, either. He is not Order of the Phoenix. He is not Death Eater.

Does he belong anywhere?

* * *

**~*~**  
**December, 1998**  
**~*~**

His father dies in Azkaban. Harry Potter is the reason Draco doesn't die with him.

Potter had spoken at his trial, told the world what he had done and gave the reason as to why he did it. He was surprised by the eloquence of which Potter spoke. Calm and collected and strong. The war changed him almost as much as it had changed Draco.

He feels a sense of _something_ after McGonagall gives him the news, but he can't put a name to it. He is still too unfamiliar with emotions.

His mother sits with him in the Headmistresses office, in a big chair that Draco remembers his godfather using every time he was in here. His mother is cool, impassive, emotionless and collected. Her chin is high, her eyes as clear. Neither of them cry when they hear that Lucius has met his end.

For a moment, Draco hates that his father is dead. Not because he misses him, far from it considering he hadn't loved the man since his sixth year, but because he has gotten to escape. Escape Azkaban permanently, escape the ridicule and shame and humiliation. Draco hates that his father got the easy way out, the final path he thinks about at night when the world around him is dead and silent. It isn't just anger, either. It is unbridled fury. It blurs his vision and if it weren't for the stupid silver bracelet around his slim wrist, he knows that his magic would be exploding in the nice little office.

After McGonagall dismisses him, he offers to walk his mother back to the front door. Like him, she is not allowed to leave the Manor without a Ministry escort. He is hyperaware that doing this will bring attention to him, attention that will make him panic and hysterical and cause his skin to crawl. But his mother is his Only Reason for being.

"Comment allez-vous, amour?"

Draco hadn't realized how much he has missed his mother's voice until that moment. It is like a switch inside his brain flicks off. The pain and suffering he has gone through over the past two and a half months comes flooding his conscious in waves that knock him flat. He wants to cry; he wants to curl into her bed and sleep beside her like he did when he was six and afraid of his what hid in the dark.

The Auror playing jail keeper to his mother frowns. Draco smirks, feeling smug for the first time in months. His mother had introduced the man when he had arrived in McGonagall's office, and he had recognized the name as pureblood. And, like most purebloods, it seemed the Auor only spoke English, Ancient Greek and Latin.

"On pourrait globalement aller mieux." The French falls off his tongue effortlessly. It is like water over a cliff, beautiful and precious, and it is _his_.

The guards frown turns dark and Draco feels a thrill of pleasure. He is toeing the edge of a line he hadn't realized had been drawn. And he loves it.

Thank Merlin his mother insisted that he know French, Spanish and Italian.

His mother nods in understanding. "Soyons heureux d'avoir été gracié de ce que nous avons maintenant, Draco. Tous nos amis n'ont pas eu le même sort. N'ont pas été aussi chanceux."

"Je comprends mère. Vraiment. Et j'en suis toujours malheureux.."

His mother turns her piercing grey eyes on him and actually looks at him. They rake up and down his body, taking in every little detail about him, from his head to his toes. "Vous avez l'air si mince," she murmurs. "Vous êtes-vous bien nourri ? Prenez-vous bien soin de vous ? Est-ce que les professeurs font attention à vous ? Vos amis vous ont-ils aidé? Y'a-t-il eu quelqu'un qui soit là pour vous, Draco?"

His mother looks so, so sad. Draco feels the hole where his heart is supposed to be clench. She had always wanted the best for him, always wanted to give him the best chance. Could he tell her the truth?

"Ils font ce qu'ils peuvent, et je fais ce que je peux."

His mother smiles then, gently, and with a warmth he had long forgotten existed she kisses him on the cheek.

"Je ne fais pas ça pour vous harceler. Mais vous êtes mon fils unique, je suis votre mère et je m'inquiète."

"Je sais."

"Vraiment? Le pensez-vous réellement?"

Draco sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Je t'aime," is his only response. They have reached the doors and Draco has the sudden urge to take her hand, stun the Auror and go. Go far, far away, where no one knows the name Malfoy and all it represents. Where no one knows his face, or the Mark on his arm, and just be and live and hopefully find something that resembles a peace.

People are staring at them. Whispering about the Death Eaters. It doesn't matter that his mother never took the Mark. She served the Dark Lord. It doesn't matter that she saved the Saviour of the Wizarding World. She served the Dark Lord.

"Je m'ennuie de vous chaque fois que vous quittez," she whispers as she falls into his arms. He realizes that he has grown another two inches since he came back to Hogwarts. He would be taller than his father. He dwarfs his mother.

"Tu me manques aussi."

"Ecrire a moi?" She sounds so small and tired and Draco realizes that she will never be the same as she once was.

He buries his face in her hair and inhales her familiar scent. It is a comfort he would not usually allow, but he has not followed the rules his father put down since the War ended.

"Comme il vous plaira."

She pulls away and her face is impassive. He knows that his will be, too, and realizes that he will always be a Malfoy, even if he doesn't hold any of the same values anymore.

Professors have come out of classrooms; students who aren't eating lunch or lounging around and playing in the snow come to stare. Draco feels like an exhibit, trapped behind glass as the world laughs and mocks. Their eyes are hard and harsh and damning. The Professors are fingering their wands, while students hold them languidly at their sides. He sees his mother's jaw clench, sees the minute tremble of her bottom lip, and realises that this is as hard on her as it is for him.

He has just gotten used to it.

There is one person who doesn't glare at Draco and his mother with malice and vengeance in their eyes. When the Golden Trio and their hang-ons enter the hall, laughing and joking around like the world wasn't just at War, Potter glances over at him. Then stops.

His mother's voice breaks the spell Potter's gaze traps him in. "Je dois y aller. Je ne peux pas…" No one else will realise the pause, the flatter in her words is not the language, but a moment of weakness. "Je ne peux pas rester ici plus longtemps."

Draco wishes that he could leave, too.

"Il suffeit d'aller, ma mère," he says, low enough so that it is private, but loud enough that it floats over the Hall and the audience.

"Je suis tellement désolè Draco. Je suis désolè que je ne suis pas assez fort pour…"

He silences her with a soft kiss to her forehead. He sees the reaction of those around him. He sees them tense and flinch and gaze in horrified interest. Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Ice Prince, comforting his mother. "Tout va bien, ma mere."

Potter is watching him with a confusing look that Draco can't identify. It is a slightly curious expression, like Draco is a fascinatingly interesting puzzle he just can't figure out. It's also something… _more_ that makes Draco feel warmth and a pulse of electricity.

Draco has never felt anything like it before in his life. And it reminds him that he is alive.

_À quelque chose malheur est bon. Unhappiness is good for something__._

* * *

**~*~**  
**January, 1999**  
**~*~**

If this was love, it was nothing like he had expected.

It was like falling from somewhere high up and breaking in half, and only one person having the secret to the puzzle of putting him back together. He hated that he made this discovery because of fucking Potter of all people. But, as screwed up as it was to him, it also made complete and utter bloody sense.

It started, like all things in Draco's completely fucked up life, by accident.

He is sitting in NEWT Defence Against The Dark Arts, at the very back and as far away from everyone else as possible. People glare whenever they see him walk in, like they can't believe that he is there when he used Dark Arts for years.

Even if you use something, that doesn't mean you aren't attacked by it. And that's what they don't understand. Draco has been _Crucio_'d. He was been tortured to within an inch of his sanity, pushed to the brink of a chasm that has no light and bottom. He had seen things that should exist only in nightmares. Only in fantasy.

He has done things that make him sick to his very stomach, make him want death because it would be an _end_. It would mean rest and peace and silence from the screaming and sounds of death.

He is one of the first to enter the room every lesson, and the Professor gives him a look that sends his blood cold with guilt and shame and a shrinking feeling that eats away at him, body and soul. He knows that he was one of the people that killed her husband. He didn't speak the words or wave a wand, but he stood by and did nothing while his Aunt Bellatrix did.

Potter is always last to enter. Granger and Weasley are always with, always by his side, as are his other collection of Gryffindor War Heroes. Finnigan. Thomas. Longbottom. They all crowd around a table together, and a few of the old Dumbledore's Army members move to be near them. The room is divided into three: Slytherin, Potter and him.

Potter is always in the thick of it. He is always being included, always being educated by Granger, always laughing with Weasley, always groaning at Finnigan, always talking with Longbottom. It is only today, however, that Draco notices.

It starts when he enters the room.

Everything is the same. They seem to be a perfect little group. Happy, care-free, on top of the world. Potter is in the thick of it. When he enters Professor Larsson smiles brightly, affectionately at him, and Potter smiles back, broad and beautiful and bright.

Granger is whispering something in his ear as they sit down, and Draco feels a bolt of twisting jealously in his stomach. She shouldn't be doing that, not when she is dating the Weasley to her left. But the Weasley doesn't seem bothered by it at all. He takes it all in stride, like it is a normal occurrence, his girlfriend whispering in another man's ear. Longbottom is on Potter's other side, chatting away to him animatedly.

It is structured, happy, ecstatic chaos around him, but Potter's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. Not in the way it had when he had been alone with Granger and Weasley, walking around the lake just before Christmas break. Not like it had when Potter had been twelve and seen Granger after killing the Basilisk. Not like it had when Potter had been thirteen and ridden that bloody Hippogriff. Not like when Potter had flown in Quidditch.

From where he sits, it seems that he and Potter are the two loneliest figures in the world. But Potter is somehow the lonelier of the two. It shocks Draco, realising that the darkness isn't just following him. Potter is always surrounded by a cacophony of people, but he is completely separate from them, completely apart. When Draco can sit with Pansy and Blaise, in the few minutes a day they steal together, he can feel completely at home. He can see his mother and know that he is loved for who he was, even if who he was was a terrible person. Potter doesn't have that. Potter is surrounded by people, but he doesn't know if any of them like him for who he was or what he was.

The place where he should have had a heart twinges. He hates the thought that Potter is unhappy. He hates seeing him, really seeing him, and realising that Potter is alone and tired, just like him. Draco hates that he wants to get up and walk over to Potter, draw Potter into his arms, and tell him that everything is going to be okay.

Draco hates that about Potter – the way that he has always been the one to get under his skin, always been the one to get a reaction out of him. Potter brings out the best and worst in Draco.

The Ravenclaw girl who sits behind Potter, Lisa Turpin, leans over, tapping him on the shoulder. Draco bares his teeth. She shouldn't be allowed to touch him. Potter turns around, a curious look on his face, and smiles at the girl. Draco bristles. She shouldn't be allowed to see him smile like that. Lisa smiles back and gestures at him, telling Potter to get closer. He does, and she moves to, and Draco has to close his eyes to calm himself.

When he opens his eyes again all he can see are Potter's bright, burning emerald ones. His breath catches. His heart skips a beat, then another.

_Are you alright Malfoy_? Potter mouths, those emerald orbs carving a place in Draco's rediscovered heart.

… _you are not to approach Harry Potter…_

He looks away.

* * *

**~*~**  
**February, 1999**  
**~*~**

Once, in fourth year, when Draco had been sulking because Potter was ignoring him, Severus had made a comment that he hadn't understood at all and refused to explain: "The faces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest, sometimes before we can even claim them".

Looking back, Draco realizes that even then, back when he was fourteen, he had been in love with Potter. And Severus had seen it and never called him up on it.

How can he describe Potter's face, the pieces of him that stuck to his heart? Potter sometimes looked aloof and distant; sometimes his face was open and soft as a bruise. Sometimes he looked completely at Draco, as if he were the point on which all the universe revolved, as if he were the biggest mystery of life, or as if he were a flame and he couldn't_ not_ look, even though he was scared to death. And sometimes it would all disappear into carelessness, confidence, amusement, as if he didn't need anyone or anything on this earth to feel happy and alive.

He sees Potter's face every night, in the few hours that he actually sleeps, in between the nightmares and horrors that are actually real and not fiction. He sees the faces of everyone he ever hurt, everyone who ever hurt him, everyone he watched be hurt and everyone who watched him get hurt.

Luna Lovegood is one of the faces that haunt his dreams every night.

So, on Valentine's Day, while he is sitting alone at the Slytherin Table and watching as the world moves around him, he doesn't know if he is dreaming when he sees Luna Lovegood's face appear in front of him.

"Lovegood?" He realises that his words are more question then anything else. The volume of the Hall has slowly gone down, as more and more people notice Draco and Luna. "Is that really…"

He slams his mouth shut, trying to catch his brain up with his mouth, before it says anything else stupid.

Luna smiles. "Hello Draco Malfoy. Long-time no see."

Draco gulps, actual fear growing in the pit of his stomach.

It had been a long time since he had seen the girl from the bottom of his cellar, locked in the dungeon and wasting away slowly. It had been a long time since he had watched as his father _Crucio_'d her for information about Potter and done nothing.

"What are you doing here?"

The girl blinks, and Draco wonders how distant a relative she is to him. They look similar. Pale eyes, pale skin, pale hair.

"I'm going to school."

Draco blinks. "I know that. I meant what are you doing here, right now, talking to me?"

Merlin, he can't even be snarky anymore. It has been such a long since he had spoken actual words to anyone. His voice sounds hoarse, scratchy from disuse. Lower and more smoky. Thick. When was the last time Pansy and Blaise managed to sneak away? Two months? Three?

"I'm talking to you, silly." Then she sits down right across from him, at the end of the Slytherin table, and picks up an apple and takes a timid bite.

"Why would I want to talk to you?"

He regrets the words instantly, but they run off her like water down a ducks back.

"Because you don't really talk to anyone anymore, and I thought you might like to talk to somebody someday."

The words are nonsense, but the make complete and utter sense. He wonders what they say about his sanity.

"And you're that somebody? And today is that someday?"

Luna smiles brightly, her eyes aglow and burning brightly. Draco wonders what it must be like, to feel something that strong. Everything he feels is diluted.

Except about Potter.

"I'm that somebody and today is that someday. It's Valentine's Day."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Although I was wondering why there were hearts pinned everywhere and red and white streamers slung from every surface possible."

She gives him a serious look and he feels his cheeks flush. Has he gone too far already?

"You should probably go see Poppy if that's the case," says the girl sagely, leaning over the table and placing a hand against his forehead.

His reaction is instantaneous. He draws his wand, jerking away from her hand, and jumps away from the table, backing against the wall. His plate goes flying, the food going everywhere, and water spills across the tabletop. His wand is levelled at her, and Draco realises that a Dark Curse is on the tip of his tongue.

"_Don't touch me ever again_."

He now has the entirety of the Halls attention. His skin is prickling as his mind processes every threat, brings up every counter-curse and shield charm he knows. His eyes determine which would be the easiest exit: blasting out a window or making a dash for the door.

As his eyes scan the faces, looking for wands or spells, they met emerald and he feels his heart lurch. Potter is staring at him, undivided attention. And his wand is drawn.

He snaps back to reality with a drop that sends him whirling. He feels lightheaded. So lightheaded that he falls back against the wall, his breathing coming in shallow, desperate gasps. Its then he realises that he is having a panic attack. Post-traumatic stress.

The only time people touch him – people that weren't his mother – is when they want his pain.

"Are you…" she doesn't give up. Luna is making her way around the table, and is coming towards him, hands outstretched. He flinches again, jerking along the wall, stumbling away as he tries to calm down.

"Je n'avais pas l'intention échouer! Arrêtez-vous! Ne me touchez pas, arrêtez!"

He knows that she is Luna Lovegood and that he can beat her. He knows. But all he can see is the Dark Lord and Fenrir Greyback and his father as they torture him, as they rip apart his mind to determine where his loyalties lie. All he can remember is Bellatrix's touches as she uses him, for pleasure and pain and everything in between.

"Éloignez-vous de moi! _Don't touch me_," he snarls like a beast; like a frightened animal, and Draco can't even bring himself to care.

The stares and the looks are all too much. The weight of Potter's emerald gaze is too much. He wants to look, but he doesn't think he can bare it, to see the distrust and disgust that will be on Potter's face and in his eyes.

Draco leaves, turning his back on her and walking with the air of a pureblood.

Just before he is out of the Hall, he hears her voice again. "I just wanted to thank you." He freezes, because there is nothing else he can do. "I just wanted to thank you, for bringing me cake when the Death Eaters were torturing me." He turns around, because he needs to see her face, he needs to know if she is serious. "For giving me news and telling me stories when I couldn't sleep. For healing me and giving me all those potions after…" She stops, and her eyes glaze over. She becomes Loony Lovegood again and Draco is left reeling. "Thank you for everything." She steps up to him and quickly kisses him on the cheek and places her apple in his hand.

* * *

**~*~**  
**March, 1999**  
**~*~**

Flying is his only freedom.

The weight of his world slides off his shoulders as the wind wraps around him like a cool embrace. The ground, and the people who walk across it, fade away, become irrelevant and insubstantial. The rules don't apply in the air, where the only defining force is gravity. The birds can't judge him, the clouds can't watch him in disgust and the sky can't be changed by opinion.

He imagines that nothing can reach him, nothing can disturb this peace he holds captive in the air, but like every other rule in the world, Potter manages to get around it.

Its twilight and Draco is flying further, faster, higher than most people dare. High enough to be completely chilled, to have his fingers freeze together. The cold is refreshing, though, because he is so used to heat and fire. The heat of his cheeks – shame and embarrassment – and the fire of hatred in the eyes of everyone around him are constant friends.

He goes high and then tumbles back down.

The fall is thrilling. It makes him feel alive like nothing else can. It erases the moments in the mornings where he ceases and makes him drunk with feeling.

He pulls up so close to the ground that his feet brush the sand. Then he climbs slowly, languidly and closes his eyes as the final beams of sunlight reach for him before they are consumed by the night.

"I've never seen you fly like that."

Draco nearly falls off his broom, clenching it tightly as he instinctually reaches for his wand. But it's only Potter, sitting in the stands, leaning forward with elbows braced against his knees and watching him with those burning eyes.

"I don't think I've ever flown like that."

He sees Potter lift an eyebrow, like he is surprised that Draco readily replied to his words.

"If you had flown like that, you would have beaten me to the Snitch once or twice."

Draco is reeling in the middle of a place he doesn't recognise without a map or wand.

"If you're only here to insult me, I'd rather be somewhere else."

Potter looks taken aback, like he hadn't realised his words could have been insulting.

"I'm not here to fight."

"Insulting me really doesn't help that goal."

"C'mon Malfoy." He reaches out for Draco, and his warm hand brushes against Draco's cold one, and Draco flinches away violently. "Malfoy?"

A hand touches his, weaves fingers through his, and Draco panics, pulling free. The Gryffindor stares down at his empty hand in confusion, then frustration. "Stop looking like some cornered white ferret scared of its own shadow."

"Such a gentleman, Potter," Draco tries to shake whatever this is, this feeling of fear and exhilaration, away. "I suppose you've found everything that's happened to me funny, right?"

Potter drops his hand and pins him with a serious look. "Quite the opposite, actually."

"Still playing at being the hero?"

Potter shakes his head. "I get what you're going through. I went through the same thing, just after I killed Voldemort."

"I suppose you think me a stupid coward, then, to still be…" Draco can only wave a hand around, gesturing to himself, because his words are failing him for the first time in his life.

"No. I don't think you're an idiot. You're very intelligent. Maybe one of the smartest people I know… well, aside from Hermione."

Draco doesn't know how to reply. He wonders if there is a reply to the Boy Who Lived giving someone a compliment. Draco has never felt so off-balance with anyone ever before.

"Just a coward then."

"More like one of the bravest people I know." Draco wonders if he heard right, because this cannot be a world where Potter says something like that, about him. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Well, this is a Quidditch Pitch, Potter. I'm obviously here to read." Draco winces, hating himself. Potter makes him uncomfortable in the most terrible and wonderful ways and he immediately tries to defend himself with sarcasm and biting words.

"Is that so?" Draco starts when he catches the grin on Potter's face. "Right. So then where are your books?"

Draco opens his mouth, ready to give civil conversation a go for the first time in his life, and notices that Potters eyes are no longer on his face. They stare at his legs, straddling the broom, and his hands, resting on the handle.

Draco hates the plummeting feeling being ignored by Potter creates.

"Potter! I'm talking to you."

Potter's attention snaps to his face and he matches Draco's frown with his own. He doesn't say anything, worrying his lip between his teeth in a way that makes Draco mad with something other than rage. His breath catches and his heart accelerates and Draco knows that he can't take much more of this.

"Fine," his voice holds no emotion, no change, and Draco hates how much he sounds like Severus. "You're obviously not worth the time if all you do is treat me like nothing. I honestly have no idea why I thought we could have a civil conversation."

Draco turns the broom around, trying furiously to blink away his tears, when Potter cries out, "Malfoy, wait!"

Like hell. Draco can't do this. He can't pretend to feel nothing but apathy to Potter. He can't ignore the need to touch and feel and taste and know.

Hands grasp his broom tail and Draco gasps in surprise before falling. He closes his eyes, preparing for the end, and feels strong iron encircle his waist. He opens his eyes and sees Potter, leaning over the side of the stands and clinging to him for dear life. He hoists Draco back up and they sprawl on the ground, Potter on top, panting heavily.

Then Draco is drowning in green. An eternity passes, and Potter blinks, cheeks turning bright. "I'm sorry!" And Draco is alone on top of the stands wondering how his life came to this.

* * *

**~*~**  
**April, 1999**  
**~*~**

Eventually Draco stops running when he reaches the very outskirts of the school grounds. There is a fallen tree and he nestles himself against its broken boughs, cradling his legs against his chest and burying his head in his arms. He is relieved that he doesn't have lessons next and he is even more relieved that lunch comes straight after. It gives him even more time to dry-sob and be pathetic.

It starts raining twenty minutes after he finds his refuge. Draco breathes in the smell of heaven and earth greedily. Nothing compares to the feeling of the big drops falling on his face. He blinks rapidly when they hit his eyes but doesn't move his upturned face an inch.

He has always loved this weather: has always loved the feel of the water, flowing down the panes of his face and washing him clean. Frizzy hair and tangles shouldn't make anyone feel good – especially anyone who was a pure blood and carried with them both the expectations of the name Malfoy and the name Black – but fuck, it feels fantastic. Like so many other recent changes in his attitude, he can't explain why.

When Draco had first arrived at Hogwarts, there was too much of it. His clothes always felt like they stuck to him, and his feet usually slipped and caught on the wet and icy ground. Things change. Over time, he grew to love the wet.

His hair is plastered to his head and he swipes silver out of his eyes. It's long. His mother would be appalled.

Draco straightens up and slips down the branch, feeling the course bark scratch and tear at his pants and back and skin. The prickling pain feels nice, just like the falling water. He runs a wet finger through the dirt next to him. It's already turning to mud. He traces the letters of his name, in his elegant handwriting which everyone but him seems to adore.

D-R-A-C-O

He likes his name and has recently started making a point of saying it in his head several times throughout each day. Those little moments allow him to hold on to the person he is, or at least the person he hopes he has become. Not the unwanted Death Eater. Not the Traitor. The boy who is all alone and fighting for his place in a new world.

Each mirror he runs across holds a stranger. His reflection doesn't match the memories of what he should look like. His skin is paler and dark circles stand out like a badge of sleepless honour. Even his eyes seem to have changed colour. He has always thought of them as a stormy-grey, but they are more than that. Silver's and cobalt's, ash grey's and slate grey's, periwinkle's and wisteria's, pale lavender's and sky blue's, all tangled together to create a complex colour that he hasn't found a name for. Those eyes hadn't belonged to Draco months ago, but they must have at the same time.

Even his name sounds foreign to him, because no one says it anymore. Or if they do, he has to ignore it, because it accompanies some vulgar and derogatory verb or noun. Everyone has a limit, and Draco never wants to find his.

Draco is enjoying the weather and scribbling his name in the mud – the irony is too much for him to bear, really – when a human-shaped shadow covers his repeated name. He doesn't need to look up to know that the figure is Harry Potter. The irregular beat of his heart and his heightened pulse and short breaths deduce all that for him.

On any other day, Draco would have loved that Harry Potter was there. For months, Harry Potter hasn't been far from his thoughts. Draco wishes for a real conversation, like the one they almost had last month, before his body and stupid, stupid heart had made him flee.

Today he doesn't want anything from another human being except to be left alone. Harry has to know that he is unwanted, but he still remains. Draco is almost about to growl at him when Harry bends down and spells his own name next to his.

After several minutes of quiet, he speaks. "You're wearing a thin white shirt that is soaked through on the saddest day in a long time, right in the middle of Sick Season. This would never happen to any other person at this school."

Draco looks down and sees that he is right. What does he care? It is just one more detail to add to the millions setting him apart from everyone else in this stupid, hateful place. "They also wouldn't play in the mud."

"I wouldn't make assumptions in your position."

"Fine then. Nobody except Longbottom would be playing in the mud."

"Why are you then?"

"Is there some rule saying I shouldn't?" he asks defiantly.

Potter takes a handful of the wet soil and makes a tight fist. It squeezes out between his fingers and oozes down his hand. This is what makes Draco's attitude change. Potter isn't put off by the dirt and the wet. He plays with it like Draco does. He is a lot like Draco.

Potter is everything Draco expects and more. When Draco finally silences his denial and his self-hate, Potter is the handsomest man he has ever met. His face is perfectly balanced. His cheekbones are high, his lips plump and his eyelashes longer then a boys should be. His eyes were a nameless green, emerald and amber and a thousand shades of green, from sea to spring.

"A picture lasts longer. Stays in a better condition as well."

Draco feels his cheeks flame as molten eyes burn into his, searching his face for something. Completely and utterly caught out, Draco looks away, writing his name in the mud one last time before scribbling it out harshly. He says nothing more, but feels Potter's eyes upon him. Judging. Discerning.

"Why are you here, Potter?" He breaks the silence with the only thing that is safe to say.

"Hermione wants me to apologise to you. She believes I've offended you in some way."

"If you had offended me, would you apologize?"

"No."

"Why?"

"When I say something, I always mean it and because I never lie." He drops the mud in his hand.

"Everybody lies," Draco says and bites his lip.

"I don't."

"You have too."

"You would be mistaken."

Dracp punches at the mud with his fists. Potter watches, the same impassive, calculating look that Draco hates to see him wear. He prefers it when Potter wears his emotions proudly, unashamedly. But, even though he doesn't like this Harry Potter, he still likes him far more then he should.

Hermione Granger had been worried about him. Draco believes that at least. But she isn't the reason Potter – this new Potter – sought him out for. Draco can't help but wonder what kind of discussions he and the muggle-born have behind closed doors.

"Are you calling me a liar, then?"

"Don't be offended. It's not a bad thing to lie."

He sighs, frustrated and embarrassed all at once, as the black hole inside him grows with more shame and hate. "Didn't you just say that you never lie?"

"Just because I don't doesn't mean that it is a bad thing."

"You can't have it both ways." Potter gives Draco an expectant, challenging look, and he feels the same bubbling emotional cauldron that comes with Potter's attention and presence. "Do you really believe lying isn't a bad thing?"

"Why would it be? What gives the people in our lives the right to any truth other than what we want them to have? Our thoughts and feelings belong to us exclusively."

"And yet, you always tell the truth."

"I never said that."

"Then you lie."

"No. I just don't tell the truth."

"That makes no sense."

"Why?"

"You either lie or tell the truth."

"Is everything so black and white with you? The shades of grey in the middle of life are the most beautiful to behold," Potter sighs, stretching his head back and taking in the thin ray of light that caresses him. He speaks differently from anyone else their age, Draco observes. With a wisdom – a knowledge of time and age beyond his years.

Draco thinks the war changed Harry Potter almost as much as it changed him.

"That still makes no sense."

Draco thrives in the rain and Potter in the sun. Opposites from the start. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Dark and Light. Pure-blood and half-blood. So why did his heart suddenly decide to sprout wings and batter against the cage that held it?

"I thought you were smarter than this, Malfoy. Aren't you taking a first year Potions Mastery apprenticeship already?"

"Irrelevant," Draco snaps.

"My point still stands."

"Fine. If you aren't a liar, but you don't tell the truth, then what are you?"

"Smart."

Draco pauses, titling his head back to look at Potter through a curtain of his saturated hair. He bites his lower lip, rolls it between his teeth, and says hesitantly, "I was thinking hypocrite."

"Hypocrisy is inevitable. I find it hilarious when people are so put off by it."

Draco carves knowledge about this man. He wants to know why he acts this way. He wants to know why everyone loves and adores him when they don't have the same reasons as him. He wants to know what Hermione Granger is to him and what Harry Potter is to Hermione Granger. He doesn't know him, but he wants to. Desperately. He needs to know him, because something keeps pulling him in closer.

"So, Granger sent you."

"Hermione worries too much…" Draco ignores the pain in his heart. _She worries about me too much, or about things in general? _"… but, she sees you as another casualty of the war and wants to know who has been hurting you."

"Who told her I was hurt?" Shame bubbles like Nagini's acidic venom.

"I did."

Draco's neck snaps around and his eyes land squarely on Harry's scar, making a point without saying anything.

_Why do you care? I'm nothing but a Death Eater and a traitor. _ "You?"

"Mmhm," he says noncommittally.

"How did you know?"

"It wasn't that hard to figure. You don't hide your feelings all that well."

Draco crosses his arms over his translucent shirt, feeling suddenly naked beneath his stare. "I am actually very good at hiding what I feel."

"The scene at the breakfast table with Luna says otherwise."

"How do you know about... that?"

"Luna. Hermione. A couple of other people I can stand to be around." He pauses, tilting his head so Draco has a tantalising glimpse of his bare throat. "Myself. I was there."

Draco has never felt more like the fool. He knew Potter had been there. He had stared at the other boy as he drew his wand. Draco clenches his hand into a tight fist and plays with the Malfoy Ring around his left index finger.

_Do you accept your right as the Lord of House Malfoy?_

"Fine. I am good at hiding certain emotions. Others I just let out because I really don't care who knows about them."

"What did Nott say?"

"Doesn't matter. It's happened and now it's over."

"It matters."

"Why?"

"Because if he was a dick to you, he needs to be taught manners again."

"It isn't in your job description to make that decision. You don't know me from Mordred."

Harry stands up and tosses Draco a familiar jumper. His school jumper, which should have been safe in his private rooms. Private, only because the other Slytherin's tried to kill him yesterday.

"You're right," Potter says softly, standing up half covered in mud. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to change that."

Potter leaves without another word.

When Draco is sure that Potter wasn't going to return, he peels off his wet shirt and pulls on his jumper, wondering where in the world Potter had gotten it from. As Draco plays with the worried edge of his jumper, he thinks about Potter.

* * *

**~*~**  
**May, 1999**  
**~*~**

Draco doesn't understand what he is doing. He doesn't know why he is going against his instincts of self-preservation and actually approaching Harry fucking Potter in front of the whole school at dinner.

Draco has always been a Slytherin. He has been cunning and watchful; he has stayed loyal to his beliefs. He has pursued wisdom in its varying forms, had a lust for answers to questions he thought impossible to answer, like a Ravenclaw. He would have fit in with the Ravenclaws if the Hat had sorted him there. He has a stupid loyalty streak that is completely unbecoming, like a Hufflepuff, especially where his friends and family are concerned. He has never had the Gryffindor courage, like Potter.

Like Severus. Like Dumbledore. Like his mother.

He approaches Potter; he stands tall and walks right up to him, ignoring all the stares and hate-filled eyes. Like a magnet, Potter straightens, goes tense, even though he can't possibly see Draco coming up behind him. But Weasley can, and he immediately has his wand drawn and pointed at Draco's chest, like he actually has a chance of beating him.

Draco knows that the only people who could beat him in a duel are Potter and Granger. But he also knows that he won't defend himself if Weasley, or Weaselette, attack him, because he deserves whatever curse they throw, whatever spell they cast. He is a monster; he has killed both the guilty and innocent, the deserving and undeserving.

But he is also still a boy, a boy who has fallen into a darkness that has no end, and he is a boy who has been pulled out of it by love.

This stupid Gryffindor courage can go one of two ways. Draco knows this. He can offer his hand to Potter, apologise for everything he has done in the past, everything he probably will do in the future. He can ask for Potter's forgiveness.

Or he can pull Potter up and kiss him, kiss him like he is a dying man and this is the last thing he will ever get to do. He can say: _Did you know I always thought you were braver than me? Did you ever guess that that was why I was so afraid? It wasn't that I only loved some of you. But I wondered if you could ever love more than some of me_.

But Potter turns around, his wand nowhere to be seen, and his emerald eyes drown Draco. Draco is lost, bewitched, by those eyes. And the words get stuck on his tongue, twisted, and they trip over each other in their rush to get out and be heard by Potter.

He is not handsome, Harry Potter. He is not beautiful. But there is something about his face that is beautiful, to Draco at least, even though he knows it doesn't fit the definition. It's in the curve of his mouth, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw, the sheer size of his emerald eyes hidden behind those stupidly cute round glasses.

It takes him seconds to determine all this about Potter. And it is in those seconds when the She-Weasel reaches out and grasps his hand, adoration on her face, and Draco's Gryffindor courage vanishes and he is a coward again.

"Thank you" is all he says before he flees.

He hides in a small alcove behind a tapestry, and pants as Potter runs past him, up the stairs, pausing to look around the vast Entrance Hall. He hears Potter call out his name – Merlin, even his voice is attractive – and Draco waits in his hiding spot with bated breath for Potter to move. When he does, Draco allows himself to float in the feelings. "I love you, Harry," he whispers with a pounding heart and the heavy knowledge that he has finally received his punishment for being a monster: Loving Potter when he can never have his love in return.

* * *

**~*~**  
**June, 2004**  
**~*~**

When Draco returns home to Malfoy Manor, he is a different person.

Mitzy, one of his favourite House Elfs, pops into existence before him and her eyes go wide. "Lord Draco, is that being yous?"

He manages a small smile as he hears Lord instead of Master. Now that he is back, he is Heir and Master of the Ancient House of Malfoy. "Hello Mitzy."

"Lord Draco has come home to Mitzy! Lord Draco is be coming home!"

The little House Elf is speechless as she bows and splutters, leading him inside. The magic of the wards wrap around him, sink into his skin and his bones and he shivers involuntarily. There is ancient and dark magic behind these wards – blood magic that has taken a century of Malfoy Heirs to maintain and improve.

"Is my mother home?" English feels strange on his tongue, and he desperately wishes to be speaking anything else.

He did his Potionry Masters in Australia and Brazil over a year of dedicated study. He didn't hang around long after his graduation in May of 1999. He was the youngest Master in the World. He loved Australia, and Brazil, because no one knew his name, and even if they did, they didn't hold it against him. He completed his Healers training in Canada over three years, and spent the last twelve months travelling around the Dark Continent as a Battlefield Healer and a freelancer. He made a name for himself in the Central African Republic, in Congo, Niger, Chad, Senegal, Gabon, Togo, Chad, Djibouti, Equatorial Guinea, Rwanda and all over Africa. French became his first language, and he felt at peace for the first time in an age.

He made money, made a new reputation, gave himself a purpose to live for and keep living for, like the mud and rain.

"Mitzy be finding Madame Cissy for yous, Master Draco!"

"Just tell her she has a guest," he smirks to himself softly. "I want to surprise her."

"Of course, Lord Draco. Mitzy would be doing anything for Lord Draco Malfoy now that he is being home!"

Draco only nods stiffly and moves into the Blue Room. As he moves through the Manor, Draco allows the years of separation to get to him. His Mother has changed so much. Gone are some of the Darker Objects, gone are the reminders of death and the Dark Lord – Voldemort – and his father. The Blue Room, however, looks that same and Draco allows himself to sigh in content.

He moves to the fire and prods at it with a poker.

A pop announces the presence of Mitzy, and Draco controls his urge to draw his wand and fire. His PTSD has become manageable, but being back in this country – this house, his house – is getting to him. It will take adjusting and time, and nightmares that make torture seem like a holiday, but Draco is prepared to do whatever it takes.

"Madame Cissy be in a meeting with Master Auror, Lord Draco. She be coming soon."

An Auror? Draco acknowledges to himself that the Auror is probably here to see him, not his mother, after his five year absence.

"Thank you Mitzy."

Mitzy nods enthusiastically. "Would Lord Draco like Mitzy to bring Lord a pot of tea?"

Draco tenses. "No thank you, I'm fine for now." The Elf bows and pops away.

Draco loosens his fist and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends unconsciously. Adjusting will be hard, he realises. He has spent the last five years relying on no one but himself. He has cooked everything for himself, done everything for himself, protected himself. It will be hard to suddenly let someone else look after him.

He hears footsteps on the floors and the light murmur of voices outside the Blue Room's door. He looks away and stares into the fire, trying to relax his muscles. Maybe going to the Dark Continent was a bad idea. He had lived through another War over there, seen things that the Dark Lord hadn't even done, and had been attacked more times then he could count. The only consolidation was that he was attacked for being a Healer, and not for being a Malfoy or a Death Eater or a traitor to both Light and Dark.

"Draco?" his mother's whisper breaks his heart and Draco feels the years of separation, anxiety and anguish that are evident in her voice. "Is that really my son?"

"Je suis vraiment icic, ma mère. C'est moi, je suis á la maison."

Finally, finally, he turns around. His mother is in his arms in an instant, holding him tight and murmuring to him in every language she knows. He catches Italian, French, Ancient Greek and even Latin. He rubs her back in soothing motions, hushing her and wondering when his mother became like this. Emotional and free and needing.

He decides it's around the same time he left to find himself.

He hears a knocking at the Blue Room doors. His mother pulls out of his arms and stands straight, pulling herself together in an instant.

"Draco Malfoy?" Draco freezes as the voice washes over him. It tickles his spine and sends shivers along his skin and an electric shock to his dick.

He turns around slowly, painstakingly slowly, as he tries to keep composure and not react to the man standing before him.

Tall, slim iron muscle; messy black hair; piercing emerald eyes; tanned olive skin.

"I'm Auror Potter," Harry Potter says, approaching him and offering a hand. He has grown taller, Draco admits, taller than him. And he is still not traditionally beautiful or handsome, but Draco has never been more attracted to someone in his life.

"Little hard to forget that name…"

Potter chuckles and the sound is like music to Draco's ears. "I suppose so." Potter's blazing green eyes bore into him, taking in every little detail. Draco feels like he is under a telescope, being evaluated and dissected. But he loves it, because he has Potters undivided attention, and he realises that five years still hasn't eliminated his love for the man in front of him.

And he has tried.

He has had more lovers then most people can dream of. He has been with Fae and Veela, women and men, Nixie and Nymph, and yet it seems Potter still has an iron hold over him.

His mother makes a small noise behind him and Draco rips his eyes away from Potter long enough to see her cough into a handkerchief. He catches the sight of red, and wonders if its blood. He turns around and grasps her lightly by the slim shoulders. "Mother?" Potter appears beside him, his shoulder pressing up against Draco's.

She makes a sound. "I've just been sick lately," she smiles at him weakly. "But now I have my world renowned Healer son home to look after me." She coughs again. "I think I'll rest for a little while though, Draco. We can have dinner and you can tell me about everything you have accomplished and everyone that you have helped."

Two House Elfs – Twiggy and Ebby – appear with a pop and help his mother to her room. Draco watches after her and knows that nothing is the same in this house.

Potter clears his throat and catches all of Draco's attention immediately. "I'm only here to make sure you arrived in one piece," he says. "Protocol for all returning..." he can't say it and Draco understands why. "Anyway," Potter smiles and Draco's heart flutters. "I've seen you; I've cast the necessary charms; I'll now leave you to look after your mother." His cheeks are flushed and Draco has no idea why. "Thank you for your time today, Healer Malfoy. I hope your mother…" Draco knows that Potter saw the coughed up blood too. "Considering your here, though, I know she'll be better in no time."

He doesn't give Draco time to respond before he is walking back out the door, his Auror cloak billowing behind him. Draco is torn between mortification and absolute pleasure.

Potter stops by the door, grasping its frame in one hand, and looks over his shoulder. "Oh, and before I…" he trails off and makes a frustrated sound before he looks at Draco with that _Look_ again, walking towards him quickly and _embracing_ him in a hug. "Happy Birthday, Draco Malfoy."

Draco is left saying thank you to air and wondering whether his heart will ever slow down again.

* * *

**~*~**  
**July, 2005**  
**~*~**

When Lord Greengrass approaches him, he wants to be surprised or taken aback by the demands the other man makes. Draco has been back in Britain for nearly two years, and his name is revered among the Healers and Potion makers. His reputation is all-but perfect. His wealth doubled, and his power substantial.

Because of all this, he isn't surprised when Lord Greengrass appears in his parlour at Malfoy Manor. His mother sits in a comfortable looking chair right by the fire, her cane placed elegantly over her knees. Lord and Lady Greengrass stand behind the chair of their second daughter, Astoria, and read Draco the terms of the agreement his father made before he was born.

"Why come forward with this know, Archibald?" his mother asks bluntly. "When the date was set for the month after Astoria's twenty-first birthday?"

Archibald Greengrass splutters for a moment, caught out by his mother's words. His wife looks aghast and Astoria can only stare at Draco in adoration. Draco shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

"Because your son was off gallivanting in the Dark Continent, that's why," Greengrass finally snaps, glaring at Draco.

"I was not off gallivanting, Lord Greengrass," Draco manages to sneer out like a perfect pureblood Malfoy; "I was making a name, money and better respected reputation then your own."

Draco watches happily as Greengrass turns a violent shade of purple.

His wife is the one who replies. "That is why we want the accord to happen now," she says benevolently. "Astoria is twenty-two; your own son has just turned twenty-five. They are still within the age. Your son's reputation is indeed greater than my husbands. He is well-respected and can look after my daughter very well. My daughter has been tested and is extremely fertile. She will be able to give Draco – my apologises, Lord Malfoy – many sons and an Heir, thus insuring the Malfoy line. The Greengrass dowry will also add a substantial amount of funds to your own personal banks. It is beneficial for everyone involved. And we do not care for Lord Malfoy's… troubled, past."

Draco scowls, his amusement vanishing. The damned woman is right. He has had many proposals, but none as advantageous as this. All others that could be anywhere near as good as his match with Astoria are non-existent, because all those families want nothing to do with a favourite ex-Death Eater like him. And he needs an heir. Very few pureblood families can claim at fertility, besides those ridiculous Weasley's.

"Of course," his mother says simply. "Draco and Astoria will be married at the end of the month."

When Draco kisses Astoria to bind the contract, he can't help but think of Potter in this very room, standing as close as she is, and making his heart beat faster than anyone else ever could.

* * *

**~*~**  
**August, 2006**  
**~*~**

When Astoria gives birth to a healthy baby boy, Draco has never been more proud of anything in his life. His little son is screaming, howling like a banshee as the midwife cuts the umbilical cord and puts him in Draco's arms, still bloody and covered in muck. But Draco doesn't care. The boy stops when he sees him, and opens his eyes – silver, like the moon, like his own – and blinks up at him.

"Hello there." The baby yawns, like his journey from Astoria to the world has been hard even though he did nothing. "I'm Draco Malfoy… I'm your Papa." His baby smiles, all gums and spittle and gurgling, and Draco hasn't ever seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. Even though the boy is covered in blood, he brings him close, nuzzles his nose in his pale white chicken ruff and closes his eyes. "I will love you forever."

* * *

**~*~**  
**September 1, 2017**  
**~*~**

"Papa, what if no one likes me?" Scorpius asks him quietly as Draco kneels in front of him and straightens his shirt collar. He hears Astoria's strangled snort and very carefully controls his temper.

"Of course someone will like you," Draco answers. "What isn't there to like? You're smart with a wicked sense of humour, and you're fun to be around."

"You're a Malfoy," Astoria says, smiling gently. "Of course people will like you."

Draco closes his eyes, counts to ten in his head, and wonders why he couldn't have married Daphne Greengrass instead of her sister. Astoria is nice. She is a perfect wife, and has even become his friend, but she is still a pureblood with pureblood ideals and beliefs, unlike Daphne, who married against her family's wishes, to Theodore Nott, for love. He feels a little hand against his cheek and opens his eyes to see Scorpius' worried face.

"Papa?"

Draco shakes his head and covers his sons hand with his own. "Don't worry Scorpius. If I managed to make friends, then so can you."

Scorpius laughs at that, softly, and his lips turn up at the corners. He is shy and careful, wise beyond his years, and Draco knows that it is entirely his fault, because he wanted complete honesty with his son. Scorpius knows exactly what Draco has done, what he has seen, and still loves him.

His son knows more about him then his mother and his wife.

"Now, what are you going to do when you get to Hogwarts?" Draco asks him, all business and seriousness.

Scorpius scrunches up his nose. "Not provoke the Giant Squid, not duel anyone until I learn how to fight properly and mind the Thestrals."

"And after you're sorted?"

"Write a letter to you and send it along with Hermes," Scorpius replies, making a face like it's the worst idea in the world, and pets his snowy white owl affectionately. Draco had started when Scorpius had picked out Hermes. The owl looked exactly like another owl from his time at Hogwarts; an owl that had been a best friend to another shy little boy.

Draco nods, mindful of the heavy eyes and stares that sit on he and his son. Scorpius feels them too, because he stands up straighter and tilts his head up. He is strong, stronger then Draco ever was, and not a coward at heart. He looks exactly like him, too, and Draco is forever grateful.

Scorpius is a little Draco. And Scorpius is proud to be a little Draco.

He feels Astoria place a hand on his shoulder and he stands, nodding to her, and she crouches down in front of their son and smooths his hair out. Draco watches, a small smile pulling at his lips, and schools his face, because he is still a Malfoy and his family still have a reputation.

"… I love you, Scorpius," Astoria is saying quietly. "Don't ever forget that if times are rough."

He speaks formerly, because Draco and his mother made it their mission to make French the language for all their conversations. "I know you do, mother," Scorpius replies. "And I know that Papa loves no one better than me, too."

Draco watches Astoria's face. Her mask is good, but he sees it slip slightly. Draco feels guilt gnaw at his chest when he sees Astoria's pain. She loves him, and she knows that he loves her. But she also knows that he loves someone else more.

He made that clear to her, before they married. She had asked him before they took to bed, if they could ever love each other. Draco had been honest, more honest than any other time in his life, and braver then he had ever been before. "_No Astoria, I don't think we can. I've been in love with someone else nearly all my life, and no matter what, I've never been able to not love them_." She had nodded, like she actually understood, and only asked him who she was. Draco had replied, "_He is someone I can't name."_

"Papa!" Draco comes back to himself quickly, and looks down. Scorpius is holding his hand in a death grip, and his eyes are boring into Draco's. "Papa," he hisses, "is that _the_ Harry Potter?"

Draco snaps his head up, mindful of Astoria's watchful gaze. He scans the crowd, seeking a river of ghastly orange that he knows will be around Potter, and finds himself drowning in emerald water.

Potter stands with his wife with Granger and Weasley close by, and they stare at Draco. Draco feels his heart as it speeds up, feels his mouth go dry and his body electrifying. Fuck, Potter still makes him feel incredible and he must be staring like an idiot, but those eyes are hypnotising and they still enchant Draco like nothing else in the world ever has. Draco wonders how long he has been staring and quickly gives a sharp nod before turning away.

"Yes Scorpius, that's Harry Potter," Astoria is the one to respond. Draco refuses to look at the two of them, and instead watches the other families around the platform, seeing faces he remembers and others he wishes he could forget. He catches sight of Luna Lovegood and her Scamander twins; Pansy Parkinson-Nott and her three sons.

Astoria forces him to turn back. She tugs on the sleeve of his black coat and gestures with her head towards Potter and a boy that looks remarkably like Potter as he watches Potter kneel in front of him. "Is that one of Potter's sons? Albus?"

Draco nods the affirmative, and Astoria graciously leaves him to his own devices as she seeks out her sister. Draco feels a different tug on his jacket. He looks down at Scorpius, who watches Potter and his son with riveted eyes. Draco feels his heart lurch.

"Do you think I could be friends with Albus Potter?" he asks thoughtfully, titling his head to one side and narrowing his eyes. "Do you think he would like me?"

History repeats itself…

"I think he would be lucky to have a friend like you."

* * *

**~*~**  
**X**  
**~*~**

Sometimes he thinks that maybe they are just stories. Like they may as well just be words on a page, because a person is only what they have done and what they are going to do. He knows he is only an ex-Death Eater, a tiny speck in the world, but then he looks at the things he has seen and done and he becomes a jagged line of something important. And he thinks it is the same for Harry Potter and Scorpius and even Albus Potter and for his mother and for Astoria, the patients he associates with, and for Luna Lovegood and maybe even the fish in the sea.

He knows that there are different genres of stories with different kinds of beginnings and endings. But he can't say that, for him, it worked that way, with any kind of ending he could pin down. And there were still things he didn't expect.

The first was that he didn't expect to fall in love with Harry. But he did, he still does, and he can't imagine a life without. The second was that Draco didn't think he would ever be happy again, after sixth year. But when Scorpius was born, he felt happiness like nothing before. It was flying and running as fast as he could through an endless field. It was chasing clouds across the sky, and diving into cold, crystal clear water on the hottest summer day.

It was like falling in love with Harry, but different, because that tiny little boy could love him back.

A whistle trills and Scorpius scrambles towards Astoria, hugging her quickly, before embracing Draco in a tighter hug. He squirms away and takes a deep breath, leaving Draco behind for bigger and better things.

Standing on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, watching the train leave even after it has vanished, Draco lets himself wonder _what if_.

_What if_ he had realised, the day that Severus had said 't_he f__aces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest, sometimes before we can even claim them_,' that he was in love with Harry.

Would he have done things differently? Would he have sided with the Dark Lord?

_What if_ he had kissed Harry, that day when he had chased after Draco, and told him exactly what he felt? _Did you know I always thought you were braver than me? Did you ever guess that that was why I was so afraid? It wasn't that I only loved some of you. But I wondered if you could ever love more than some of me_.

Would Harry have forgiven him, kissed him back? Would they have had a happy life together?

But then Draco shakes his head, locks the _What If's_ back in the darkest corner of his heart – the place where he keeps all his secrets, all his lost dreams. If he had had Potter, he wouldn't have had Scorpius. And there is nothing in the world that would make him give up Scorpius.

But when he feels someone move to stand behind him, and his heart all but stops in his chest...

"Draco…"

…_maybe, _Draco thinks,_ just maybe, I can have both if I use that Gryffindor courage that waits inside me._

* * *

**Authors Note:** French-English translations from Narcissa and Draco's conversation (roughly, because it has been three years since I took French and google translate is not always reliable):

"Comment allez-vous, amour?"  
How have you been my love?

"On pourrait globalement aller mieux"  
Everything could be better

"Soyons heureux d'avoir été gracié de ce que nous avons maintenant, Draco. Tous nos amis n'ont pas eu le même sort. N'ont pas été aussi chanceux."  
We are fortunate to have been blessed by the circumstances we face now, Draco. Some of our friends were not as fortunate. Have not been as lucky.

"Je comprends mère. Vraiment. Et j'en suis toujours malheureux."  
I understand mother. I do. And I can still feel unhappy about it.

"Vous avez l'air si mince," she murmured. "Vous êtes-vous bien nourri ? Prenez-vous bien soin de vous ? Est-ce que les professeurs font attention à vous ? Vos amis vous ont-ils aidé ? Y'a-t-il eu quelqu'un qui soit là pour vous, Draco?"  
You look thin. Have you been eating properly? Have you been looking after yourself? Have the teachers been looking out for you? Have your friends been helping? Has anyone been there for you, Draco?

"Vraiment ? Le pensez-vous réellement ?""  
They do what they can and I do what I can

"Je ne fais pas ça pour vous harceler. Mais vous êtes mon fils unique, je suis votre mère et je m'inquiète."  
I really didn't mean to pester you. But I am your mother and I do worry about my only boy.

"Je sais."  
I know.

"Avez-vous? Pensez-vous vraiment?"  
Do you? Do you really?

"Je t'aime."  
I love you


End file.
